


Heaven

by DeathSam



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Romantic Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21546982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathSam/pseuds/DeathSam
Summary: Heaven is cold fingers on a hot forehead, an analgesic pill during a headache, cool slimy ointment on a scratched knee.Heaven is not painful, Heaven is not Paradise, and Crowley with that Heaven is not supposed to be an angel.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Heaven

One day Aziraphale asked Crowley if he remembered Heaven.

What was it like to be loved by Her, to feel like an angel, not to die every hour from the nasty, sticky, muddy, and absolutely disgusting hellish pain in the ever-smoldering wings?

_Do you remember Crowley?_

No, he doesn't, but he _knows_ , as none of the angels of today knew, that memories do not bring comfort, that they will not cure him of it, that he will endlessly continue to suffocate in the smoke from the ashes from his own wings, because memories kill, because the memory of happiness is a rotting wound, and he does not want to. 

But if Aziraphale had asked him what he thought of Heaven now, Crowley would have answered him without hesitation.

The Heaven smells of books and dust, of dried herbs and chamomile tea, soothing, reliable — so incomprehensibly familiar, so utterly ordinary, like sun-dried drops of seawater on tanned skin, and so inexplicably necessary, as oxygen is necessary to the human breath, as the human body needs water.

Heaven for Crowley — drug, he drowns in their sentiments, he them suffocates, he them sick, but without him, knows, dies, not survives, not weathering burdens this world alone, without brightness, without surreality, without presence this something — moreover the most inexplicably home, because poison is spreading on body together with bliss, because, despite the, that poison, that painful for, that _cannot be_ — all the same sweetness, all the same it is desirable, all the same as a result spreads a sweet film of burnt sugar on language as if he forgets that he should feel nothing and therefore feels _absolutely everything_.

Heaven is pure, unadulterated, shrouded in white angel feathers such bright and vivid, indescribable delicate, light, smelling of clouds and grass, freshness and Verve, giving a soft, sweet taste of happiness and unconditional love — so overwhelming, scary, absolute, and such an incredibly unfathomable love that Crowley is drawn to it, unconsciously, tentatively, with fear, because they don't know not sure don't understand because you don't know how to love because no one taught him — or because he loved once, a long time ago, but forgot how, because it hurts, and now can not remember what it feels like.

The Heaven is brewing cocoa — a strange color and aroma, somehow smelling of raindrops and icy cold breath of autumn, although the drink itself spreads heat around him — and on Thursdays add marshmallows to it, and on Tuesdays — cream — and although Crowley still does not understand this strange, incomprehensible, for some reason does not want to explain in his eyes the desire to constantly feel something Aziraphale thinks cocoa, and Crowley knows Heaven, — and then endlessly long drink, stretching pleasure, reading books, thousands of times reread, and wrapped in Terry warm blankets.

One day Crowley asks him why. Aziraphale — an angel, him should not be chilly, him should not be feel hot, he should not want there is, to drink, he at all many what was _should not_. He tells him — without a hint or reproach, without a desire to hurt, hurt, humiliate, no, he's an angel — that Crowley does not understand.

Yes. Crowley doesn't understand. He wants to understand, very much, but he _does not understand_ , he almost asks the angel to explain to him, to show, the words almost fall from his tongue, they touch his lips, he opens them to voice, to ask if Aziraphale will say something to beg, because the desire seems so strong that it is about to tear him apart, but he is silent. He closes his mouth, not a breath escapes his lips, and Crowley nods silently, because Yes.

He doesn't understand.

But Heaven forgive Crowley any of his dirty tricks because Heaven care, love, accept it for what it is, because before these Heavens Crowley didn't have to build a weird one, because he doesn't have anything to choose, because it is not put before a choice, because Crowley is not obliged to do anything for these Heaven — he is not obliged, and so he makes _everything_ , and Crowley knows what _these_ Heaven will never cause it to Fall, although it seems that we are at the bottom.

It seems that even then, before the Beginning, when there was no Earth, there were no stars, there was absolutely nothing around but Paradise, Crowley knew that _those_ Heavens would never be his real home.

Heaven gave love, but it was close, breaking ribs and squeezing hot in the then nonexistent Hellfire Vice of his heart — he then still felt so much, so _bright_ , and because he was so hurt that he could not find a name for this pain, because Heaven then was for him Hell, which is now, and he could not explain it to anyone.

Heaven gave love, but love ached, felt empty in his lungs, and it seemed to Crowley that this was happening only to him.

Heaven had given him love, but Lucifer had given him something else — knowledge. False or wrong, it was knowledge, it was not empty, though it hurt too, but it explained everything, and Crowley went after it, after Lucifer, because he wanted to know, because he did not understand, because he asked for answers that others did not give him, because he asked for help that he should not have, because it hurt, and because he didn't know what to do with the pain. 

Because no one has explained how to do the right thing.

He does not remember, but the heart remembers, and Crowley just hopes — just _know_ — no matter how much he laughed it off, no matter how many excuses, nor silent, nor distracted from the topic, and not tried in any way to Dodge inevitably repeatedly emerging dialogue that _these_ Heaven, _his_ Heaven — personal, personal, only, it seems, was made for him, will never hurt him.

They will love, but love will not bring pain.

Because it turns out that when you love someone, not hurt, and when you love in response — doesn't hurt too.

Heaven is cold fingers on a hot forehead, an analgesic pill during a headache, cool slimy ointment on a scratched knee.

_Heaven is not painful, Heaven is not Paradise, and Crowley with this Heaven is not supposed to be an angel._

Crowley — not a human, not an angel, not the wrong daemon, he simply Crowley, simply the, who throws bread in ducks, who priklevaet coin, forces people sin, confuses thought, brings with pathways, disables the brake for of fright, leads in weekend mother-in-law…

Crowley — the one who grows plants, who listens to old music, who loves his car, does not turn into a dark alley, steal money, point the barrel of a gun, who causes rain in a drought.

Crowley — the, who comes on-humanely, who kinder any heavenly angel, who tantalizing children during global flood, and epidemic Plague, and the height of the First World…

And the Heavens gently touch his hair, hold his hand.

Heaven covers him with a rug, lets him tempt, feeds the ducks with him, dines at the Ritz, drives to Bentley, reads him books, does not contradict, does not resent, does not hate.

The heavens know it, the Heavens love him, and Crowley loves Heaven.

If Aziraphale had asked Crowley what he thought the heavens were, Crowley would have told him he was looking at Them right now.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in English, because it is not my native language, but I hope it does not look too terrible.  
> If you have reached these notes, then please leave your opinion in the comments, it will be very useful for me to know it!  
> Thanks, dear <3


End file.
